


Strange Company

by Arathe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arathe/pseuds/Arathe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adjusting to life on the Battleship Condescension is hard. Getting used to the fact that everyone knows you're a mutant is harder. Dealing with Spades Slick is a fucking nightmare, especially when you aren't sure from one day to the next whether he's going to lose what little patience he has and fucking eviscerate you.</p><p>But you suppose it's better than the alternative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally wrote a thing.
> 
> Mostly I blame it on flyingfishpaste for planting the seed of pale Karkat/Jack in my brain and this is the result. (I know I have other things to work on but this won't be terribly long, promise.)

There are a lot of things you never thought you’d do in your short, insignificant life. Surviving to adulthood was one of them, but you’ve been spared the culling fork by the grace of some lucky fucking connections and friends who inexplicably seem to care about your continued well-being despite your status as a mutant-blooded freak. Another would be standing sandwiched between Feferi and Eridan in the presence of Her Imperious fucking Condescension herself, trying valiantly not to shit your goddamned pants, and yet here you are. 

She’s frightening. You expected that, but you had zero concept of just how utterly terrifying standing not ten measly paces from her would actually be. Your only comfort is the rapid in and out of Eridan’s breathing that tells you the seadweller is just as scared as you are. On your right Feferi is standing square-shouldered and calm even under the weight of the Condesce’s full attention, and you wonder if that’s because she has her lusus as leverage or if she’s honestly not afraid. 

Either way, you’re pretty impressed.

“Don’t look like much,” she declares after a moment, stalking closer until she’s looming over Feferi. “But you got guts, kid, and I can get behind that.”

Feferi pulls this little half-bow half-curtsy maneuver and says, “I’m honored that you think so.”

The Condesce snorts inelegantly and then she’s looking— oh god oh fuck she’s looking at _you_. You want to sink into the floor but all you can do is stand there and quietly flip the fuck out because your status as a freak is written in your eyes now, and it occurs to you that you escaped the drones only to be culled by the Condesce herself. You guess that’s something.

She squints at you for a long time before she says, “So you’re the mutant.”

Your mouth takes off without any input from you and you snap, “No, I just like to pretend I’m a freak of nature because I _enjoy_ dodging culling forks.” And that’s it, you just snarked the Condesce, if she wasn’t going to cull you before she’s definitely going to do it now, because you’re a dumbshit with zero brain to mouth filter.

She stares at you.

You stare back because fuck it, if you’re going to die then you’re going to do it with a little goddamned dignity.

Then she fucking _laughs_ and you officially no longer understand anything. “Kids these days ain’t got no fuckin’ respect.” She sounds amused and then she’s looking away from you, snapping at a pinched-looking finface hanging off to one side. “Get ‘em situated.”

And that’s how you survived your first meeting with the Condesce.

* * *

The Battleship Condescension is _huge_. You suppose that’s to be expected, since it’s the flagship of the whole damn fleet, but after getting lost no less than twenty times in the first few weeks, you’re beginning to think the labyrinthine behemoth is a little fucking unnecessary. You don’t even leave your block unless you have to, because you frankly don’t like reminding the crew that you exist, and accidentally stumbling into the engine room _twice_ garners the kind of attention you really don’t need.

At least you don’t really have to worry much about running into the Condesce. The ship is bisected somewhere in the middle, the lower half flooded for the comfort of the somewhat disproportionate number of seadweller crew. On the downside, you don’t see much of Feferi or Eridan, but at least you don’t have to worry about getting lost somewhere that might really get you in trouble.

Probably.

In all honestly, you’re actually kind of bored. Your block is surprisingly decent all things considered, but most of your friends are so busy that there’s hardly ever anyone on Trollian to talk to, and like fuck are you trying to socialize with the crew. Your days are mostly spent fucking around on your husktop with brief dashes to the cafeteria for food, which is always an interesting adventure in attempting to avoid all contact with other living trolls and trying not to get lost yet again. One restless day spent sleeping in a storage unit because you refused to ask for help was plenty, thanks.

Today you’re looking for the commissary because the sopor level in your ‘coon is getting low, and you’re pretty damn sure you’ve managed to get yourself lost yet _again_ because you are a sorry sack with no sense of direction to speak of. It would be nice if the corridors didn’t all look completely fucking identical, but apparently the scumsucking moron responsible for designing this spacefaring tin can gave zero shits about ease of navigation.

You stop at an intersection, peering down both painfully identical hallways. Yeah, you're lost. Fucking again. You're beginning to think that maybe the Condesce didn't do you any favors when she decided not to cull you. On top of being a hopeless ignoramus, you're also finding yourself at painfully loose ends. Feferi might've saved your pathetic hide by speaking up for you, but in doing so she'd condemned you to some sort of purposeless half-life. Not only were concupiscent quadrants completely off the metaphorical table from now until your no doubt ignominious end, but you've also been left with no job and no place. Fuck, it's not like you're itching to go out and do your part for the glory of the Empire, but the idea of spending the rest of your days like some sort of useless, kept _pet_ makes you want to tear out your own hair. And that's all you have to look forward to, because who's going to give a fucking mutant some sort of meaningful employment? Hell, you shouldn't be complaining because you're lucky just to be alive, but it still fucking sucks.

You know what? Fuck the commissary, fuck your sopor, and most of all fuck the stupid ship. You turn on your heel with some vague idea of retracing your steps and hiding in your block until you starve, but that plan is immediately derailed when you walk smack into someone's chest. You should apologize because _everyone_ on the ship outranks you right down to the janitorial staff, but you're in a worse mood than usual so instead you snarl, "Why the tripflipping fuck are you up my wastechute?”

The next moment you’ve got the business end of a knife jabbing you under the jaw hard enough that you have to stand on your toes to keep it from slicing clean through. On the other end of the knife is a troll not much taller than you, dressed in black from head to toe, and that’s when you realize you just mouthed off to a laughsassin. Bad life choices are becoming a distressingly regular occurrence for you.

He growls and twists the blade a little deeper and you can’t help the knee-jerk panic when you feel the warm slide of blood down your throat even though it isn’t a secret anymore, won’t ever be a secret again. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t gut you right here.”

You swallow reflexively and the blade sinks a little deeper. “Because red is hell to get out of the carpet?”

His gaze flicks down to your throat and then up to your eyes, and he snorts something that sounds almost like a laugh. “Yeah okay,” he says, and the knife is gone in a warm pulse of blood. You clap a hand awkwardly under your chin in an effort to keep from bleeding all over the damned place, watching as he wipes the blade casually on his thigh before it just fucking disappears like it never was. “Guess you must be the mutant.”

You are really getting sick of that word. “You think?”

His eyes narrow and his tone is warning, “Watch it, kid. I might still filet you if you piss me off.”

“What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be in this area.” You almost hit the roof you start so bad. You’d been so focused on the guy with the knife you hadn’t even noticed his tall shadow, also dressed in laughsassin black with nary a hint of blood color or symbol to be seen. Even his eyes are black. Of course, the fins are sort of a dead giveaway, but you suppose it’s the principle of the thing. Fuck, fuck, it figures you wandered somewhere you shouldn’t. “I got lost,” you grumble.

Knife-guy actually laughs outright. “Lost, are you fuckin’ kidding? Want we should go get your lusus?”

You’re debating the merits of punching this asshole in the face versus a sudden stabby end, but the seadweller speaks up before you can decide. “Boss, we really ought to go.” Boss? You know the laughsassins go in for the whole hemononymous thing, but it is still very strange to see a finface calling someone obviously lower on the spectrum _boss_.

“Yeah alright, get off my back.” The short one squints at you like he’s trying figure something out. Then he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, black like everything else and shoves it into your hand. “You’re a fuckin’ mess, stop bleeding all over the damn place.” He brushes past you and you can only turn and stare. “C’mon Droog, can’t keep Her Imperious Pain in My Ass waiting.”

“Sure, Boss.” The tall guy, Droog, stops as he passes and leans over a bit, pointing down the hallway. “If you head back that way and turn right at the fourth intersection, and then left at the second, you should find crew quarters if you just keep walking.”

Okay. That was... actually incredibly helpful. “Thanks,” you say, because this encounter has been so strange you don’t have much more than that in you.

“Get a move on! I ain’t got all damned day.”

“Coming, Boss.” Droog inclines his head at you with a ghost of a smile, and then he’s loping off after his boss, whose name you realize you don’t know.

What the actual bulgechafing fuck just happened?

Belatedly you realize you’re still clutching the handkerchief, and you swipe halfheartedly at the blood on your hand and wrist before bunching it up and putting pressure on the wound. You’re bleeding more than you’d like, but at least you aren’t dead. You follow the directions Droog gave you—what kind of name is that anyway—and you find yourself back in your little deserted corner of crew quarters, as promised.

You head straight for the ablution chamber when you’re back in the relative safety of your block. For all that it’s bleeding like crazy, the wound isn’t as bad as you expected, and you carefully, meticulously wash all traces of blood from your skin before taping a makeshift bandage over the wound. It’s bulky and uncomfortable, but like hell are you going to the infirmary for anything short of a lost limb. Maybe not even then.

You never did get your sopor, but you’re pretty fucking done with the day. It’s not all that late, but you peel off your clothes and slip into your ‘coon anyway, because it’s not like there’s anything stopping you. In spite of the fact that you really do need some more damned sopor because you’ve been putting it off for days already, you manage to make yourself comfortable enough to sleep.

When you wake you don’t feel particularly rested, and your jaw is throbbing something fierce. You haul yourself out of the recuperacoon, and once you’ve washed off the slime you deposit yourself in front of your husktop in the hope that someone might actually be fucking online. Maybe Sollux, he always keeps weird hours.

While you're waiting for your husktop to boot, you notice a palmhusk sitting innocently on the corner of your desk. You stare at it for a minute, frowning in confusion. You don’t own a palmhusk.

Oh, shit.

You blink, the implications of that fact sinking in, and you don’t think it’s a coincidence that you had a run-in with laughsassins yesterday and magically appearing tech today. You pick it up gingerly, not entirely convinced it isn’t going to explode. Someone had to have come into your block in order to leave it. While you were _sleeping_. Thanks to a lifetime of paranoia you are an incredibly light sleeper, and someone had walked right in to your block without waking you. Fuck.

Eventually you get tired of staring at it suspiciously and just turn it on. When it doesn’t unfold into some kind of devious doomsday device, you figure you’re probably going to live another day. There’s only one program loaded, and it turns out to be an interactive map of the ship; all you have to do is enter a location and it gives you directions, quick and easy.

It’s a surprisingly nice gesture, and you are completely fucking confounded by it. You figure it must have been Droog, because the other guy hadn’t exactly struck you as the type for helpful gestures, even if breaking and entering seems more his style. You’re fiddling around a bit when you tap on the bridge, just out of curiosity. The map informs you that you do not have the security clearance for that section, and suddenly the mysterious gift makes a lot more sense. They’re just trying to keep you from wandering into areas you aren’t supposed to be. Obviously. 

You aren’t sure why, but as you turn back to your husktop you can’t help but feel a little disappointed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha I wrote this entire chapter in a single sitting I am ~superman~
> 
> Also writing Terezi in a pesterlog is a freaking nightmare holy shit.

You hate going to the cafeteria. You hate it because even though it hadn’t taken you long to figure out the busiest times to avoid, it’s never actually empty. You’ve taken to catching your meals in the middle of the day, an hour or so after shift rotation. There’s always still a few small groups of trolls hanging around, but most of them are just coming off shift and they’re usually too tired to pay much attention to you. Luckily while most of the crew knows _of_ you, not a whole lot of them will recognize you on sight. You pass for a rustblood pretty well as long as no one looks too closely.

Still, any time you’re around others you feel like you have a target painted on your back. Just because the Condesce deigned to let you live doesn’t mean someone else isn’t going to take exception to your face. So your typical routine involves getting in, grabbing your food, and absconding back to your block as fast as your stubby legs will carry you.

You have no intention of making any deviations from that plan, except you overhear a group of three rustbloods chatting and you can’t help but listen because you don’t really get much news on this ship. “I heard the Midnight Crew is back on board,” one says.

“Ugh, not again,” the female groans, followed by the soft thunk of a head hitting a table. You know what that sounds like primarily from experience. “They always make such a fucking mess, and do you know who always winds up cleaning up after those lunatics? Me.” She heaves an impressive sigh. “I wish I was back in maintenance. I never thought I’d miss crawling through access tunnels.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if it was _just_ a mess, but Slick is always putting holes in the walls, and that takes time to repair, y’know? And don’t get me started on that shit always tinkering with explosives. He took out a couple of bulkheads a few years ago; we’re lucky he didn’t put a hole in the hull and depressurize the whole section.” Your food finally comes up and you grab your tray, about to leave when she continues, “Droog is alright I guess. At least he’s polite.”

You stop short at Droog’s name because you realize she’s talking about those laughsassins you ran into the other day. You shouldn’t ask, you really shouldn’t. Drawing attention to yourself is a bad idea under any circumstances, especially for something as dumb as satisfying your idle curiosity. Except if anyone is likely to humor you, it’s going to be lowbloods. There’s a certain sort of solidarity in being on the bottom of the food chain. 

Or they could take advantage of the fact that they’re higher than someone for the first and only time in their pitiful existence and smash your fucking face in. It’s a bit of a tossup.

Curiosity wins out over self-preservation and you ask, “Who are the Midnight Crew?”

All three of them swivel to face you and your stomach drops under the attention. Fuck you and your gigantic idiot mouth. The female says, “You mean you don’t know?” at the same instant the one closest to you says, “Holy shit, you’re that mutant!”

There’s a long stretch of awkward silence while the three of them exchange looks like they can’t decide what to do with you, and just as you’re about to abscond the one with the odd, loopy horns says, “They’re the Condesce’s personal laughsassins.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Aren’t all laughsassins technically hers? Like every other sorry sack in the empire?”

For some reason that seems to shatter the awkwardness, and the female laughs. “When you put it like that. Look, you gonna stand there all day or are you gonna sit?”

She’s inviting you to eat with them. The one who called you a mutant looks a little dubious, and you know she’s only doing it out of morbid curiosity, but the lure of basic personal interaction is too strong to resist. So you sit. She tells you that her name is Korina, the one with the loopy horns is Rannik, and the douchebag is Maleth. Two of them work in janitorial, and the third is in maintenance. Cursory introductions out of the way, Korina leans forward on her elbows and says, “The Midnight Crew are the ones who get sent in when the Condesce wants someone to die nice and quiet-like. Highbloods and stuff, the kind of people with enough clout that it might cause her some headaches if she put them down directly.”

It honestly never occurred to you that the Condesce couldn’t cull anyone and everyone with impunity. “And no one ever figures out it’s them?”

“Well, people suspect, sure,” Rannik says with a shrug, “But no one can prove anything.”

You sure know how to run into the wrong people in deserted hallways, fucking hell. “Why’re you so curious, anyway?” Korina asks.

You point to the impressive scab you’ve got under your chin. “I ran into a couple of them a few days ago.” You grimace. “Literally. One of them tried to stick a knife through my face.”

Maleth whistles, long and low. “That’d be Spades Slick, and you are lucky to be alive. He’s completely shithive maggots, and he winds up murdering more than his fair share of crew whenever he’s on board. The Condesce puts up with it because he’s so good at what he does, but staying out of his way is a survival strategy.”

Korina shakes her head. “One of the girls on my shift lost her kismesis that way. If there was ever a troll in more dire need of a good papping and a pile, I haven’t heard of them.”

“Can you even _imagine_ trying to pap Slick?” Rannik says, a little wide eyed at the thought. “You’d lose your hand halfway to his snout.”

“Assuming he didn’t gut you straight out,” Maleth put in. “You’d have to be just as shithive as he is to even try.”

What you’re gathering from this conversation is that you’d had a run-in with a complete lunatic and come out the other side still breathing. You’re beginning to think you have some sort of insane luck where your survival is concerned, because at this point you should probably be dead about six times over, and yet here you are. The table goes silent, but it’s a contemplative kind of silence, and you take the opportunity to tuck into your shitty bland cafeteria food because you are ravenous.

“Is it true that you know the heiress?” Korina asks abruptly, and you almost choke on your grubroll.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Feferi is the first of the Condesce’s descendents to survive to maturity. Which is kind of a mindfuck if you think about it for more than ten seconds. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t see much of her, she’s busy and we’re not particularly close. She’s kind of a friend of a friend, I guess.” Not that you see much of Eridan either, and you’re only a little bitter at being completely abandoned.

“I wish I could meet her,” Korina says a little dreamily. “I was talking to someone who knows a guy whose moirail works down on the seadeck and apparently she’s _nice._ ” She says the last bit in a hushed tone like she’s discussing something illicit. Which kind of makes sense because Feferi is actually a genuinely nice person, and having also met the Condesce it’s kind of hard to imagine that they spawned from the same genetic line. At least until you remember that Feferi is essentially holding your entire species hostage against the Condesce’s good behavior.

“Yeah, well I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Maleth says, getting to his feet and stretching. “She almost never leaves the seadeck, so unless you’re planning on growing gills it ain’t gonna happen.” Korina flips him off and Maleth just shrugs loosely. “I’m going to sleep. I can’t say it was nice meeting you Karkat, but I guess you aren’t a complete waste of flesh for a mutant.”

“At least I’m not an insufferable taintchafing twit,” you grumble around the mysterious slop they have the audacity to call food around here.

Rannik snorts loudly and Maleth just offers a careless wave as he saunters out of cafeteria. “We should probably go too if we want any sleep before our next shift,” Korina says, a little apologetically. “And it _was_ actually nice to meet you, just ignore Maleth.” She hesitates a beat and adds, “You aren’t what I expected.”

You raise your eyebrows at her. “What were you expecting? Some sort of drooling three-headed monstrosity?”

She grins at you. “Not sure. Maybe. C’mon Rannik.”

Rannik tosses you a small smile and then they’re gone. Huh. That whole encounter was surprisingly not terrible. You hadn’t realized how much you missed actually talking to people, even if some of those people are annoying and stupid. Still, now that you’re sitting alone you’re starting to feel twitchy and nervous again, and you decide maybe you shouldn’t push your luck. The rest of your meal will be just as shitty in your block as it is here.

Back in your relative safety of your block you check your husktop in the hopes that someone is around, and miracle of fucking miracles, you find Terezi’s name lit up.

carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC]

CG: IT’S ABOUT FUCKING TIME YOU TURNED UP.  
GC: H3Y K4RK4T!  
CG: I WAS BEGINNING TO THINK YOU WERE DEAD OR SOMETHING. LITERALLY. BECAUSE YOU’RE BLIND AND THERE WAS A NOT INSIGNIFICANT CHANCE THE DRONES WOULD CULL YOU BECAUSE OF IT. WOULD IT HAVE KILLED YOU TO TURN UP FOR FIVE MINUTES AND ASSURE ME OF YOUR CONTINUED SURVIVAL?  
GC: OH, STOP B31NG SO DR4M4T1C   
GC: 1 H4PP3N TO KNOW FOR 4 F4CT TH4T SOLLUX TOLD YOU 1 W4S F1NE  
CG: AT LEAST SOLLUX’S OBSESSIVE NEED TO KEEP TABS ON EVERYONE IS TURNING OUT TO BE USEFUL. HOW’VE YOU BEEN?  
GC: GOOD! 1 H4V3 B33N SYST3M4TIC4LLY GR1ND1NG TH3 OTH3R L3G1SL4C3R4TOR TR41N33S B3N34TH MY H33L UNT1L TH3Y B3G FOR M3RCY >:]  
CG: I AM SOMEHOW NOT EVEN REMOTELY SURPRISED. YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE THE ENTIRETY OF THE LEGISLACERATORS WRAPPED AROUND YOUR DEVIOUS AND BLOODTHIRSTY FINGER WITHIN A SWEEP AND WE BOTH KNOW IT.  
GC: 4W, YOU S4Y TH3 SW33T3ST TH1NGS

Your bloodpusher contracts with a painful little squeeze. You hadn’t realized exactly how much you missed her until just now.

GC: BUT 3NOUGH 4BOUT M3  
GC: HOW H4S L1F3 B33N ON TH3 B4TTL3SH1P COND3SC3NS1ON?  
GC: H4V3 YOU 3XP3R13NC3D 4NY THR1LL1NG 4ND D4NG3ROUS SP4C3 B4TTL3S Y3T?  
CG: AT THIS POINT GETTING SHOT AT WOULD BE AN IMPROVEMENT. I AM BORED AS HELL, TEREZI. MY DAYS ARE SPENT PRIMARILY FUCKING AROUND MY BLOCK HOPING THAT SOMEONE WILL LOG INTO TROLLIAN JUST SO I HAVE SOMEONE TO TALK TO.  
CG: ASIDE FROM ONE BRIEF, TERRIFYING ENCOUNTER WITH THE CONDESCE, MY LIFE HAS CONSISTED OF AN UNBEARABLE MARCH OF DAYS ALL SORT OF BLURRING TOGETHER IN ONE GOOEY GRAY MASS OF UTTER BOREDOM.  
GC: >:[  
CG: EXCEPT FOR ALMOST GETTING DECAPITATED BY A LAUGHSASSIN I GUESS. THAT WAS DIFFERENT.  
GC: R34LLY? HOW D1D YOU M4N4G3 TH4T?  
CG: MOSTLY A COMBINATION OF SHIT LUCK AND MY GIANT FUCKING MOUTH.

A thought occurs to you. As a legislacerator, Terezi would have access to information that might otherwise be pretty hard to find. You probably shouldn’t be so curious about a group of people who making knowing things and killing people their business, but no one ever accused you of having any goddamned sense.

CG: HEY, YOU EVER HEARD OF THE MIDNIGHT CREW?  
GC: K4RK4T, YOU SHOULD ST4Y 4W4Y FROM TH3M  
CG: WELL ONE OF THEM MADE THAT PRETTY CLEAR WHEN HE STUCK A KNIFE IN MY FLESH.  
GC: 1M S3R1OUS  
GC: TH3Y 4R3 3XTR3M3LY D4NG3ROUS  
GC: TH3 L3G1SL4C3R4TORS H4V3 B33N TRY1NG TO P1N SOM3TH1NG ON TH3M FOR SW33PS  
CG: DON’T THEY WORK FOR THE CONDESCE?  
GC: W3LL, Y3S  
GC: BUT TH4T DO3SNT M34N TH3Y 4R3 OUTS1D3 TH3 L4W  
CG: I THOUGHT THE CONDESCE WAS THE LAW.  
GC: 1TS COMPL1C4T3D  
GC: BUT TH3 PO1NT 1S TH4T YOU SHOULD 4VO1D DR4W1NG TH31R 4TT3NT1ON  
CG: WELL IT’S A LITTLE FUCKING LATE FOR THAT.  
GC: UGH, DONT DR4W 4NY FURTH3R 4TT3NTION TH3N  
CG: TEREZI, YOU’RE KIND OF FREAKING ME OUT A LITTLE.   
GC: SORRY, 1TS PROB4BLY NOTH1NG, BUT 4 L1TTL3 C4UT1ON COULDNT HURT  
GC: 1 H4V3 TO GO  
GC: BUT PROM1S3 M3 YOU W1LL LOOK 4FTER YOURS3LF  
GC: 1T WOULD B3 R34LLY DUMB 1F YOU GOT YOURS3LF K1LL3D AFT3R 3V3RYTH1NG TH4TS H4PP3N3D  
CG: YEAH, SURE. AND HEY, MAYBE LOG IN A LITTLE MORE OFTEN?  
GC: 1LL TRY, BUT 1M PR3TTY BUSY  
GC: 1M K1ND OF 4 B1G D34L YOU KNOW  
CG: YEAH, YEAH, JUST TRY TO MAKE TIME FOR THE LOWLY PEONS ONCE IN A WHILE, MRS. SUPER IMPORTANT BIG DEAL LEGISLACERATOR.  
GC: H3H3, 1 W1LL!  
GC: BY3 K4RK4T!  
CG: LATER TEREZI.

gallowsCalibrator [GC] has ceased trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]

You sit back and stare blankly at your husktop before you shut it with a sigh. Terezi hadn’t really told you anything you didn’t already know, or at least suspect. Except for the part where the legislacerators were after the Midnight Crew, that was kind of surprising. You wonder what kind of political and/or legal clusterfuck is making that a thing.

After a few minutes you realize that you’re just kind of staring morosely at your husktop like you’re hoping it’ll come to life and bring Terezi back. Which is pretty fucking pathetic. You push away from your desk and head for the ablution chamber with a vague plan to stand under the warm water and feel sorry for yourself. You stop short when you notice the crumple of black fabric on the sink, where it’s been sitting for days.

You’re not really sure what to do with it. It seems like a bad idea to throw it away, but it’s also kind of weird to keep it. You suppose the thing to do would be to give it back, except the blood has probably set by now, never mind that tracking down a shithive laughsassin just to return a handkerchief seems risky. Of course given what you know about Slick, _not_ returning it also seems risky.

Fuck.

You snatch it off the sink, ignoring the tacky smear of red it leaves behind. You run it under hot water, doing your best to work the blood out and watching as it washes away in a watery pink swirl. Once the water runs clear, you squeeze the handkerchief out as best you can and hold it up, peering at it critically. It’s wet so that makes it harder to tell, but you don’t think the stain really shows much on the black. You aren’t even sure why you’re bothering, it’s not like you’re crazy enough to track him down just to return a square of fabric he may not even want.

Of course. You could just. Take it to his quarters and leave it outside? That way you wouldn’t have to see him and potentially die, but you don’t have to keep the handkerchief and also potentially die.

Except that plan requires you to actually know where his quarters are, and you don’t. Korina probably does, but she’d want to know why you’re asking and you have no idea how to find her again anyway, beyond camping the cafeteria and hoping for the best. She’d also probably think you’re nuts, and she’d be right.

You hang the handkerchief on one of the towel hooks and resolve to forget about it.

Three hours later you’re tapping ‘Spades Slick’ into the map program on your palmhusk and cursing yourself for a suicidal moron. You don’t actually think it’ll work, so when you get a pleasant chime and a route instead of the expected ‘bluh bluh security clearance’ message you aren’t actually sure what to do. You can’t possibly have the clearance for this information. Maybe it’s an oversight? Or maybe they just didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to actually go looking for the guy who tried to skewer you. Which would be a reasonable assumption if you weren’t a complete idiot.

You look from your palmhusk to the unassuming handkerchief hanging in your bathroom, then back to the palmhusk.

Fuck it. You grab it off the hook, folding it into a slightly damp black square and stuffing it in your pocket. Then you grab your palmhusk and head out. This time of day he’s probably still asleep, but it’s not like you plan on knocking on the door. You’re just going to leave the handkerchief in front of his door and get the fuck out, easy.

You should know by now that nothing in your flaming clusterfuck failure of a life is ever easy.

You don’t have any trouble finding Slick’s quarters, because honestly this map program is the best thing to happen to you since you boarded this stupid space boat. You hover just around the corner, checking to make sure no one is lurking around. The corridor is empty, but you still can’t resist the urge creep along like being extra quiet is going to prevent the people who aren’t there from noticing you.

Just as you’re bending to place the handkerchief on the ground, the door slides open and you yelp in a way that is decidedly undignified and freeze, like somehow being still is going to save you from getting skinned alive.

Spades Slick stares at you.

You stare back.

He squints.

You stop breathing.

“What the fuck are you doing outside my door?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely complexQuanta, who also helped me out of a bit of a jam with this chapter.

Terezi is going to kill you if Slick doesn’t beat her to it. She warned you, told you in no uncertain terms that the Midnight Crew were best avoided, and what do you do? You go skulking around outside Slick’s block like there was any conceivable chance you wouldn’t get caught. Now he’s staring at you through narrowed eyes, waiting for you to explain yourself, after which he’s probably going to stick sharp things in your soft bits and then toss you out the nearest airlock.

Oh well, you had a good run. Better than you could have expected, anyway. You straighten up and thrust the handkerchief at him. “I thought I should return this.”

Slick stares at the black square like he has no idea what it is or why you’re trying to give it to him. Which means you probably could have thrown it out and he would never have given it a second thought. Just one more brilliant decision in a long line of excellent life choices, good job, Vantas. At least it’s a little less pants-shittingly terrifying when he isn’t looking directly at you, which is when you realize that the only thing he’s wearing is a towel slung around his hips, because _of course_ you caught him just out of the ablution trap.

Then you see the scars. The one across his eye hadn’t escaped your notice, but his torso is such a lattice of old wounds that you think there must be more scar tissue than not. Worse, a lot of them look a little too uniform to have been anything other than deliberate, and you aren’t sure what that means except that it can’t be anything good.

Slick plucks the handkerchief from your fingers, startling you back to the reality of your no doubt imminent demise. “You’re tellin’ me that you tracked me down just to return this?”

He sounds a little incredulous. Maybe that’s a good sign? “Yeah,” you shrug a little. “Did my best to wash the blood out, but it’s probably a lost cause.”

He doesn’t bother to look. “Kid, how the fuck did you even find me?”

You hold up the palmhusk and he doesn’t even pretend not to know what you mean. “Fuckin’ figures,” he snorts, rolling his eyes. Then he just turns and walks back into his block, but before you can take that as a cue to make yourself scarce he calls, “Don’t stand in the doorway all damn day. Get in here.”

Sure, why not. What possible harm could there be in walking into the private quarters of a man known for killing people on a whim? You suck in a nervous breath and step over the threshold, door sliding closed behind you. Slick is rifling through his closet, tossing clothes over his shoulder, and he doesn’t even look at you as he says, “Touch anything and I’ll cut off your fuckin’ fingers.”

You jam your hands in your pockets as he vanishes into the ablution chamber. You could probably make a run for it while he’s occupied, but you have a feeling that might be more dangerous than staying where you are. You really owe Terezi an enormous, grandiose apology replete with a sickening amount of groveling. 

When Slick doesn’t immediately emerge, you take the opportunity to look around. Carefully. Without moving. It’s a nice block, a lot nicer than yours. One of the walls is riddled with holes, two knives jutting from the plaster like he was using it for target practice and just left them there, which explains Korina’s complaints. The guts of some mechanical device are strewn across the desk, husktop and papers shoved haphazardly out of the way, a hat tossed carelessly on the whole mess. The place feels very lived-in, which is a little surprising since you got the impression they aren’t often onboard.

Slick doesn’t give you long to snoop, and you stiffen the instant the door opens, watching him warily. At this point you’re reasonably sure he isn’t going to kill you, but that’s no reason to let your guard down. He seems completely unconcerned with you, wrenching one of the knives from the wall and disappearing it with a flick of the wrist. “Vantas, right?”

He says it like he already knows the answer, because of course he knows your name. “Yeah.” Has he been looking into you? Okay, stupid fucking question, you’re the only known living mutant in the entirety of the empire, you should be more surprised when people _don’t_ know your name. 

Slick picks up his hat, maneuvering the holes around the s-curve of his horns without issue. When he finally looks at you, there’s a calculating set to his expression that pings your flight instinct so hard that you have to dig your claws into your palms to steady yourself. “So, what am I gonna do with you?”

Being blunt seems to have worked for you so far, so you say, “Thank me for returning your handkerchief and tell me to get the fuck out before you perforate my sorry carcass?”

He snorts, and you swear he almost smiles for a second. “You’re a mouthy little shit, aren’t you?” It seems like a rhetorical question, so you keep your flap shut. “Nah, this is the second time we’ve crossed paths, and I think it’s—whaddya call it? _Serendipity_.” You aren’t sure if it counts as serendipity when you came here on purpose, but like hell are you going to correct him. He nods to himself like he just decided something. “Yeah, I think you’re gonna do me a little service.”

You are so unbelievably fucked. You don’t know what he wants with you, but it’s probably going to be detrimental to your continued health. “You seem to be pretty good at gettin’ into places you shouldn’t be.”

“Not on purpose,” you protest, because you really don’t like where this is going.

He waves your protest away like it’s completely irrelevant. “Don’t matter. Could be I got a use for a kid who can get around without drawing much notice.”

You are equal parts alarmed and intrigued, and you do your best to stomp down your curiosity because it’s going to get you culled. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a mutant. A walking abomination is the kind of shit people tend to notice.”

“Yeah, yeah, so you’re a mutant.” Slick rolls his eyes. “Put a uniform on you and nobody’ll look twice.” He turns to his desk, rifling under the papers like he’s looking for something. “Don’t matter now, I’ll think on it some.” He finds what he’s looking for, some kind of data pad that he thrusts in your direction. “For now, you’re gonna run that to Droog for me. You remember him? Tall, skinny fucker who was with me before.”

You take the pad because what are you going to do? Say no? Ha fucking ha, that’s a good one. “I remember,” you say, a little defeated. Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll just forget about you after this. “Where do I find him?”

“Gimme your palmhusk,” he says. You do, and he fiddles with it for a moment before handing it back. The map program is tracking a little dot labeled D. Droog as it moves down a corridor in a different section of the ship. “I patched it through the ship’s sensors so it can track biometric data. Anybody gives you trouble, just tell ‘em you’re on an errand for me and that I ain’t gonna be happy if they stop you.” You nod, and Slick frowns at you. “Well, whaddya waiting for? Scram kid.”

You get the fuck out of his block as fast as you can without running outright. You feel magnitudes better with a door between you, and with a glance at the palmhusk you scurry off to do as he’d told you.

What the fuck just happened? No, seriously, there was nothing about that encounter that made even an infinitesimal amount of sense. Of all the possible outcomes you envisioned when you set out on your patently moronic quest to return his handkerchief, _running errands_ hadn’t even made the list. You’d like to think that maybe he was a little impressed with you, but the more likely scenario is that he’s fucking with you, like a meowbeast toying with its prey just before the kill. You suppose there’s a third scenario, that he’d just needed someone to deliver the pad and you happened to be handy, but you get the feeling that’s not the case.

Your palmhusk leads you into an area of the ship you vaguely remember passing through shortly after your arrival. You get a few curious looks from the occasional crew member, but no one tries to stop you. You guess people are less likely to bother you when you look like you’ve got somewhere to be. The path leads you farther down into the belly of the ship, and you’re so intent on the screen that you’re knee-deep in seawater before you realize where you’re walking.

You swear, scrambling back out of the water. Fucking hell, your shoes are _soaked_ , excellent job paying attention, you useless sack of excrement. After a pitiful and ultimately useless attempt to shake some of the water out of your shoes, you consult your palmhusk to figure out where you’d gotten turned around. You look from your palmhusk to the water lapping gently at the stairway in front of you, then back to your palmhusk. Son of a bulgefisting fuck. 

Droog is down on the seadeck.

What the fuck are you supposed to do now? Did Slick set you up? Was he off having a good laugh at the stupid fucking kid he’d sent on an impossible errand? Because unless you spontaneously grow a set of gills, there is exactly zero chance of you delivering this stupid pad. Shit, shit, shit. You kick the wall with your soggy shoe and screech in rage. You want very badly to turn around and go back to your block, fuck Droog, fuck the seadeck, and most particularly fuck Slick.

Instead, you sink down against the wall and stare angrily at the little dot on your palmhusk. He’s got to come up at some point. You’ll just have to wait him out, because bad joke or not, if that pad doesn’t get where it’s supposed to go, there’s a very good chance you’ll lose whatever sliver of goodwill you’ve earned from Slick. Which will probably end with you as a pincushion.

So you wait.

Several hours later you’re cold and damp and dozing, when a splash startles you abruptly awake. For one disoriented second you think it’s the Condesce, but then you wake the fuck up enough to realize that it’s Droog. Fucking _finally_. “It’s about fucking time, I thought I was going to die of old age.”

Droog blinks at you. He’s dressed differently than the last time you saw him, wearing the water resistant stuff the seadwellers usually favor. You clamber to your feet, grimacing at the squishy feeling in your shoes and the stiff, damp rub of your pants. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says.

You might have cared four hours ago, but by this point you have nary a fuck to give. “Whatever, stow it.” You shove the pad into his hand. “Slick told me to give that to you. Errand complete.” You turn to make the long, uncomfortable slog back to your block, but Droog stops you.

“Hold on,” he skims the pad, then looks back to you. “Slick sent you?”

“No, I just enjoy sitting around for hours in wet clothes,” you grumble. All you want is some hot water and some sopor, and maybe a little time to dwell on your bad choices.

Droog hums a little, canting you a thoughtful look that makes you shift anxiously. “I see,” he says, like there’s something particularly revealing about what you’d just said. “Thank you, and I apologize for keeping you waiting. I’ll be certain to mention your tenacity in seeing that I received this.”

At this point you don’t care if he tells Slick that you drowned in your own ablution trap. “Yeah, sure. Can I go now?”

Droog inclines his head. “Of course, Karkat. Sorry to keep you.” You really wish people would stop using your name when you never gave it to them. It gives you the fucking creeps. 

The trek back to your block is just as awful as you thought it would be, and you peel off your clothes the instant you’re through the door and make a beeline for the ablution chamber. This is what you get for not listening to Terezi, and from now on you’re going to make it a point to keep your head down. As long as you stay out of sight, Slick will probably forget you exist entirely, which for the sake of your continued survival is probably for the best.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.
> 
> I apologize for the extended wait, but the combined forces of a writing slump and college have conspired to keep me away from fic for a while. I'll try not to leave things so long until the next chapter!

Your plan seems to be working. You’ve scarcely left your block for a week, and your days have been a blissfully uneventful parade of sleep and shitty husktop games. You haven’t seen any trace of Slick or Droog, and it’s getting to the point where you feel almost confident that they’ve forgotten about you. Confident enough that when you spot Korina in the cafeteria one evening, you actually sit down across from her with a minimal amount of internal debate.

You also might be a little lonely, since the only interaction you’ve had recently was a brief chat with Sollux. But just a little.

She blinks up from the data pad she was reading and grins. “Karkat! I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again.”

The last person who was that happy to see you was Eridan, and it's been perigees since he's bothered to grace you with his presence. It’s a little surreal, and you shrug, suddenly very interested in your food. “I’ve been trying to stay out of sight.”

She frowns, propping her chin on her hand. “Why?”

“You mean I need a reason beyond having a target painted on my back solely by virtue of being alive?” It comes out a lot more bitter than you intended, but fuck. You think you’re entitled to a little bitterness.

“You’re under the direct protection of the Condesce,” Korina points out. “I don’t think anyone would hurt you, that’d be suicide.”

“You mean no one would _kill_ me,” you say, and Korina winces, but doesn’t argue because she knows you’re right. The Condesce isn’t going to care what anyone does to you as long as you survive, and Feferi only has so much influence. Staying as invisible as you can is going to be a long term survival strategy, because there are a lot of things worse than dying. This isn’t a conversation you actually want to have, so you fumble out the first thing that comes to mind. “Where’s Rannik and ass-face?”

It’s obvious you’re deflecting, and it’s obvious she knows it. “Rannik and I are on different shifts this rotation, and Maleth is busy with an infestation of sparkbeasts near engineering. You ever seen one?” You shake your head. You’ve heard of them, but you’ve never seen one. How do you even get pests in space? “They get into the electrical conduits and siphon off power. Not a big deal most of the time, but when the population gets too large maintenance has to go in and cull them or else you get really nasty power fluctuations. That’s one part of the job I don’t miss.” Korina looks like she’s about to say more, but goes wide-eyed instead, staring at something over your shoulder. Fucking fuck _fuck_ , this is what happens when you get complacent, it’s probably Slick and you _knew_ sitting down was a bad idea.

“Hi! You must be Karkat.”

Okay, that’s not Slick. That’s not a voice you know at all, and Korina is looking at you now, but her startled expression doesn’t give you much to go on. You twist in your seat and find yourself face-to-chest with a short, friendly-looking troll in laughsassin black. He smiles at you and you swallow a groan, resisting the urge to crawl under the table and die. “Yeah, that’s me.” You’re pretty sure he already knows that.

“Nice to meet you! I’m Deuce.” He looks over your shoulder at your mostly-untouched food. “Are you done eating? The boss wants to see you.” Korina sucks in a sharp breath but wisely keeps her flap shut.

You think he’d let you finish if you said no, but you’re also pretty sure keeping Slick waiting would be a really, really bad idea. Your guts tie themselves in a sick knot, and you doubt you could keep anything down now anyway. You shove your tray away with an irritable sigh. “Guess I’m finished.”

“Oh, that’s lucky!” This guy is way too cheerful and it’s making you more nervous than you already are. At least with Slick you have some idea of how fucked you are at any given moment. Deuce wouldn’t be a laughsassin if he wasn’t dangerous. “If you’ll follow me, then?”

You sigh and wave dejectedly at Korina, who looks very concerned for your continued well-being. She’s not the only one. Deuce smiles at her and says, “It was nice seeing you again, Private.” Korina goes three shades paler and manages a weak smile before Deuce escorts you out of the cafeteria.

Now that you’re standing, it turns out that he’s actually a little shorter than you are. You’ve gotten so used to having to look up at everyone that encountering a hapless meatbag who makes _you_ look tall is strange and a little disorienting. Deuce chatters animatedly as you walk, and doesn’t seem the least bit put off by your stony silence and occasional grunt. You’re kind of surprised Slick puts up with this guy; it strikes you as the kind of thing that would drive him nuts.

Deuce leads you to a part of the ship you’re unfamiliar with, but you think it might be near that area where you got lost the first time you had a run-in with Slick. “Here we go!” he says, stopping in front of a nondescript door with a keypad beside it. He punches in some sort of ridiculously long code, and the door slides open.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but it’s just a room. Dominated by a large table, and sprinkled with some chairs and a sofa pushed up against one wall. Slick is the only one there, idly tossing and catching his knife in one hand while he reads something in the other. He doesn’t look up when you enter, just says, “It’s about fuckin’ time.”

“Sorry, Boss,” Deuce says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. He gives you a little nudge and you realize you’re standing in the doorway like some kind of frightened wiggler, so you step inside. Deuce skirts around you, shooting you a smile and an honest-to-god thumbs up. What the fuck has your life become?

Slick finally looks up, scanning you top to bottom with narrowed eyes. “C’mere,” he says, waving you over impatiently. You aren’t particularly eager to step in easy reach, but what are you gonna do? Argue? As soon as you’re close enough he grabs you by the shoulders and you start like he fucking electrocuted you. Slick rolls his eyes. “Calm down kid, what’re you so jumpy for?”

He cannot be serious. “The last time you touched me you almost put a knife through my face,” you snap. He still has you by the shoulders and you really, really want to pull away but you’re also dead certain that would be a spectacularly moronic thing to do.

 _“Almost,”_ he says, like your reaction is completely unjustified. For a moment he looks you dead in the eye, and for some bizarre reason that actually quells your nerves a little. Which is totally irrational and more than a little stupid, because Slick isn’t what anyone might term _calming_. Maybe all that isolation is getting to you worse than you thought.

After a few seconds he pats your shoulders a bit, looking from one to the other before declaring, “Yeah, you’ll fit.”

“Fit what?” you ask, because that does not sound promising. Not at all.

“Not what, kid,” Slick says with a sharp grin. “Where.” He gives your shoulder a hard slap and stands, steering you over to the table. There are some sort of schematics spread out, heavily marked with notes. At least you think they’re schematics, you aren’t exactly an expert. “Got a use for you,” he says, like you should be honored or something.

That’s right about the time you realize you are totally fucked. For whatever reason, this murderous lunatic has taken an interest in you, and you aren’t going to be able to shake him until he decides he’s done with you. Assuming he doesn’t kill you first. You drag a hand down your face and sigh. “Sure, why the fuck not? It’s not like I have anything else to do besides whatever annoying, demeaning, and/or dangerous thing you’ve got planned for me.”

Slick snorts. “Well, ain’t you just a burst of goddamned optimism.” He snags a bundle of fabric off one of the chairs and shoves it into your arms. “Here, you’re gonna need that. I hope you appreciate how hard it was to find something to fit a miniscule runt like you.”

“Hey!” Deuce protests.

“Shaddap. I wasn’t talking to you, peewee.” Slick is watching you pointedly, so you unfold the bundle to find a maintenance uniform. 

Great. Fantastic. There is no conceivable way that this isn’t going to end with you dead or in the brig. You doubt this is going to deter Slick, but you have to try. “You realize I’m not allowed to wear a uniform, right?”

“I realize I don’t give a shit.” That settles it. You are a dead troll walking.

Why do you have to be so breathtakingly _stupid?_ If you’d just left well enough alone, you wouldn’t be in this insane predicament, but oh no. No, you had to go and return the handkerchief and draw attention to yourself like a complete fuckwit. It’s like your sense of self-preservation just sailed away into the metaphorical sunset, flipping you off all the while and singing choice profanities to the tune of a lively jig. “Okay then, what the fuck do you want with me? Spill it so I can get this suicidal shitshow over with.”

Slick snags you by the collar and hauls you forward, and that’s it, you went too far, goodbye Karkat, no one’s going to miss your pathetic hide. He growls a low warning, and every instinct you’ve got is sounding klaxons in your head. “I like you kid, but that ain’t gonna save you if you get too fuckin’ cocky, got it?”

You mutter something that must be close enough to an affirmative to satisfy him, because he releases your shirt. Okay then, blunt is good, asshole is bad. That’s not a fine distinction or anything, sweet bulgeblistering hell. Slick points to the schematic. “This is a map of the access tunnels on the engineering level, and more importantly, the electrical conduits. Just so happens that the head engineer and the crew chief are having a meeting in a few days, and I’d like to know what gets said.”

He wants you to spy. But not just that, he wants you to spy on _officers_. “I suppose that’s where I come in.” You wonder what you ever did to deserve this. You just wanted to live, and maybe become a threshecutioner. That’s all, not like you had high ambitions.

Slick smirks. “You got it. All of my boys are too recognizable, and Deuce is too goddamned fat to fit in the conduits, anyway.”

“Why you gotta be so mean, Boss?” Deuce whines.

“It ain’t mean if it’s true, now can it.” Slick points to the access tunnel labeled EG-17, tracing it up to where it intersects with another, smaller tunnel. “This is the electrical conduit you’re going to follow. It’ll be a tight squeeze, since they ain’t actually meant for personnel, and there’s a few things you gotta watch out for if you don’t wanna get fried, but we’ll go over that later.”

Excellent, not only are you going to have to crawl through tunnels people aren’t even supposed to go into, but there’s also a fair chance everything is going to culminate with your charred corpse crammed in an electrical conduit. On the plus side maybe you’ll stink up the place for a while before someone peels your gooey carcass out of the walls.

Slick traces the conduit to something that bisects it, but it doesn’t look like another access tunnel. “Ventilation shaft,” he explains. “Comes out right over the conference room, but for fuck’s sake, don’t fall. It’s a twenty meter vertical drop and even if you don’t break both your legs they’re still gonna hear it. Once you reach the bottom there should be a grate you can listen through.”

You feel like you’re in some sort of spy thriller, and the feeling is not a good one. “What if I get caught?”

Slick shrugs. “Then you’ll probably get culled, so don’t get fuckin’ caught.”

You have no idea why you expected some shred of protection, but you suppose if they’re resorting to you there’s probably a reason. You wonder if they’re working against the Condesce or something. “I’m going to die,” you say, eyes tracing the route Slick marked out for you.

“Nah, kid.” Slick claps you on the shoulder hard, and the grin he shoots you is all teeth. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote a pesterlog formatter, and I felt the need to share this because it's the first program I've written outside of school and I'm pretty darned pleased with myself. Plus it made posting to AO3 so much less of a headache, wow.
> 
> Also, this is my first time writing Sollux, so if I borked his quirk or made any otherwise amazing errors, please let me know.

As you peer over the lip of the ventilation shaft and into the darkness below, you wonder what the fuck you’re doing. It’s a question you’ve been asking yourself over and over for the last two hours. It’s a question that sprang up the instant you put on that maintenance uniform Slick gave you, because seriously. 

What the fuck are you doing?

Your continued survival hinges entirely on your good behavior, and yet here you are, breaking a thousand rules and cramming yourself into narrow conduits full of fuck knows what with the intent to spy like you’re some kind of troll James Bond. And why? Because Slick told you to? You sigh and knot the rope around the bundle of cables that you had been assured would hold your weight. Okay, Slick telling you to is probably a good reason if you don’t want your insides to become your outsides, but die now or die later are both pretty shit options. At least you’re reasonably sure Slick wouldn’t torture you first.

Fuck it, you’re already here, might as well just get this farce over with and hope you escape with your hide intact. You give the rope a good yank to test it, and then clamber over the edge. The shaft is wider than the conduit, but not by much, and manage to more or less shimmy your way down without having to rely on the rope too much. You hit the bottom sooner than you expect, and your foot goes slamming into metal hard enough to send a deafening clang echoing back up the way you came.

You freeze, swearing under your breath and waiting for any sign that someone heard you. When you don’t hear any shouting or other sounds that might indicate your impending doom, you take a deep breath and put your other foot down, nice and easy. You crawl the short distance to the grate, peering through, but you can’t see shit.

You’re a little early, so you set up the tiny recording device Slick gave you and hunker down to wait.

* * *

You have never been so completely enraged in your short life. You storm down the corridor, nearly mowing down some poor sap who barely manages to scramble out of your way. You’re covered in some kind of mystery gunk, you smell like ozone, and you just spent four hours listening to a couple of officers discuss highly sensitive information like _shift rotations_ and _personnel requests._

Slick is a dead man. 

You are furious past the point of fear, and when you find yourself stymied by that keypad you give the door one hard, rage-fueled kick and shout, “Open the _fucking_ door!”

The instant it slides open you storm past Deuce and hurl the recorder straight at Slick’s head. You’re kind of disappointed when he snatches it out of the air, because putting a dent in that asshole’s face would have been incredibly satisfying. Instead, you have to settle for marching up to him and snarling in his face, “I am not a toy, you putrescent sack of shit.”

Slick tucks the recorder in his pocket and cocks his head a bit. “That so?” he says, so completely unconcerned that it somehow manages to make you even angrier.

“Yes, _that’s so_. My life might not mean anything to you, but it’s pretty much all I’ve got left and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop jerking me around for your amusement.” You’re so furious you’re shaking, and you’re not even sure why, it’s not like you expected anything else.

“Hey, easy,” Slick says, voice dipping in a quiet, almost soothing way. He’s not angry. You’re practically shouting in his face, but he’s not getting angry and you don’t understand why. “Calm down before you rupture something, kid.”

Against all reason and general sanity, you do. Slick doesn’t even do anything, he’s just standing there, too close but that’s your own fault, watching you with those unnatural black eyes. You hate it when people tell you to calm down, it never works, except Slick’s just so uncharacteristically placid that it rubs off on you a bit despite yourself. You feel your shoulders unbunch and you sigh, rubbing your face and smearing something dubious across your cheek in the process. All the twisted up rage drains right out of you, and you’re still pissed, but mostly you’re just tired.

“That’s a hell of a temper you got,” Slick says, and you can’t help but snort because really?

“This coming from you,” you grumble, and Slick actually smiles a bit. It catches you off guard, because it’s not that manic grin you’re learning to dread— just something small and wryly amused. 

It doesn’t last long, and after a beat Slick steps back to a respectable distance and says, “Button it, shorty. And go wash up, you look like shit.”

Right, you’re supposed to be angry at this asshole. “Whatever. Just do me a favor and leave me alone.” You turn to go, and you realize that Deuce, Droog, and some behemoth of a troll you’ve never seen before are watching the whole thing with undisguised interest. You guess you can’t blame them, they probably don’t get to see people flip shit at Slick all that often.

“Hey, kid.” Slick’s voice stops you, and you glance back. “Not bad.” You just blink at him because you can’t tell if he means it or if he’s just being an ass.

Whatever, you don’t care. You’re gross and tired and just so beyond done with this shit. As you leave, Slick’s voice chases you out, “What’re you morons gawking at?”

* * *

“Did that just happen? I mean, I’m not crazy right? That actually just happened.”

“Looks like it.”

“I leave for one perigee and the whole universe goes completely shithive.”

“Mm.”

“I think the boss likes him!”

“Good job stating the fucking obvious, Deuce. Except the boss doesn’t like anyone. On a good day he _tolerates_ people.”

“He likes us, doesn’t he?”

“You know, whenever I think you can’t get any dumber, you always manage to surprise me.”

“You’re so mean. He likes Droog, at least.”

“I think Droog’s just mastered the art of not pissing him off.”

“Can we please stop speculating about who the boss does and doesn’t like?”

“Geeze, touchy. So, what’re we gonna do about this?”

“We’re going to keep our mouths shut is what we’re going to do.”

“Bah, spoilsport.”

“...Do you really think the boss doesn’t like me?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Let it go, Deuce.”

* * *

It takes you forever to get the strangely viscous mystery goo out of your hair, but you feel marginally better after a nice, long stint in the ablution trap. You’re starving, but walking all the way to the cafeteria seems like an insurmountable task, and you’re tired but still too annoyed to sleep. So instead you drop yourself into your chair with a vague plan to play the shittiest games you can find until you fall asleep in self-defense.

The instant your husktop powers on, a trollian window springs up.

twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling carcinoGenetecist [CG]

TA: iit2 about tiime.  
TA: fiigure2 you fiinally deciided two get off your hu2ktop for more than fiive 2econd2 when ii actually need two talk two you.  
CG: WHILE I'M TOUCHED THAT YOU CLEARLY MISSED MY SUPERIOR AND ENGAGING COMPANY, I'VE KIND OF HAD A SHITTY DAY AND I'D APPRECIATE IT IF YOU'D CRAWL BACK OUT OF MY WASTECHUTE AND SHOW YOURSELF OUT THE NEAREST AIRLOCK.  
CG: THANKS.  
TA: wow KK who pii22ed iin your grubflake2?  
CG: WHO HASN'T PISSED IN MY GRUBFLAKES? PISSING IN MY GRUBFLAKES SEEMS TO BE EVERYONE'S NEW FAVORITE ACTIVITY. I'VE GOT PEOPLE LINING UP OUTSIDE MY BLOCK JUST HOPING FOR THE OPPORTUNITY TO USE MY BREAKFAST AS A LOAD GAPER.  
TA: look iim tryiing two do you a favor here 2o 2hut up for a miinute.  
TA: 2omeone2 been lookiing iinto you.  
CG: ARE YOU SURPRISED? I'M THE EMPIRE'S BRAND-NEW SIDESHOW FREAK. IT'D BE WEIRD IF PEOPLE WEREN'T LOOKING INTO ME. THEY'RE PROBABLY TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHERE TO SIGN UP FOR THE GRUBFLAKE PISSING EXTRAVAGANZA.  
TA: wiill you forget about your grubflake2 for one 2econd and pay attentiion.  
TA: iim not talkiing about 2omeone lookiing you up on troogle.  
TA: although 2earche2 iincludiing the word mutant diid 2piike for a whiile after the new2 about you went publiic but that2 be2iide the poiint.  
TA: whoever thii2 ii2 theyre diiggiing deep.  
TA: ii mean were talkiing about everythiing from 2weep2-old trolliian log2 riight down two hatchiing record2.  
CG: WHAT? REALLY?

It had to be one of the Midnight Crew, if not Slick himself. But why? What did they expect to find, except maybe your embarrassing collection of terrible pale porn? Wait, what if they _do_ find your porn? Ugh, you really should have trashed your computer before they carted you offworld. And what the hell could they want with your hatching records?

CG: WAIT, THERE ARE HATCHING RECORDS?  
TA: of cour2e there are hatchiing record2 dont be 2tupiid.  
TA: they have two keep track of wiiggler2 2omehow but tho2e are 2uppo2ed two be re2triicted.  
TA: whoever thii2 a22hole ii2 he2 pretty good.  
TA: not a2 good a2 me.  
TA: but pretty good.  
CG: HOW DID YOU EVEN FIND OUT?  
TA: ii flagged all of u2 iin the central databa2e 2o that iit would alert me two any unu2ual actiiviity.  
TA: after that iit wa2 pretty ea2y two keep tab2 on your 2talker.  
CG: UGH, DON'T CALL HIM MY STALKER. I'M HAVING A HARD ENOUGH TIME DEALING WITH THIS FESTERING WASTE OF BATSHIT FLESH WITHOUT THINKING ABOUT HIM LURKING OUTSIDE MY BLOCK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY LIKE A GIANT FUCKING CREEP, THANKS.  
TA: aha 2o you do know who iit ii2.  
CG: I HAVE A PRETTY GOOD IDEA, YEAH. I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT SORT OF CRITICAL SYSTEMS FAILURE IN HIS ALREADY DERANGED PAN PROMPTED ALL THIS FUCKING INTEREST, BUT I SUPPOSE IT WAS PROBABLY SOME COMBINATION OF MY SPARKLING PERSONALITY AND HIS COMPULSIVE NEED TO SHIT ON EVERYONE UNFORTUNATE ENOUGH TO BE IN HIS GENERAL VICINITY. IF I'M LUCKY MAYBE HE'LL TRIP AND IMPALE HIMSELF ON SOMETHING SHARP.  
TA: ii2 iit ju2t me or diid iit get a liittle piitch iin here all of a 2udden?  
CG: WHAT.  
CG: NO, DON'T BE DISGUSTING.  
CG: LEAVING ASIDE THE FACT THAT SOMETHING LIKE THAT COULD GET ME CULLED, MY HATE IS COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY PLATONIC. I'M FAIRLY CERTAIN I'VE SAID WORSE ABOUT YOU ON MULTIPLE OCCASIONS, SO DON'T GO JUMPING TO IDIOTIC CONCLUSIONS.  
CG: ALTHOUGH I GUESS I SHOULD THANK YOU FOR SUCCESSFULLY KILLING MY APPETITE.  
TA: 2ure KK whatever you 2ay.  
TA: 2o are you goiing two tell me who youre frothiing iin completely platoniic hate over or am ii goiing two have two gue22?  
CG: I'VE HAD THE CRIPPLING MISFORTUNE OF DRAWING THE ATTENTION OF A SHITHIVE LAUGHSASSIN WHO MAY OR MAY NOT KILL ME AT ANY GIVEN TIME.  
TA: oh yeah ii thiink TZ mentiioned 2omethiing about that.  
TA: ahaha thii2 lo2er ii2 tryiing two trace me.  
TA: yeah good luck wiith that buddy.  
CG: CAREFUL, OR YOU MIGHT WIND UP GETTING RECRUITED.  
TA: huh  
TA: thatd be 2omethiing.  
CG: I WAS KIDDING YOU GIGANTIC MORON. THESE GUYS ARE DANGEROUS, AND I KNOW YOU THINK YOUR AMAZING HACKER SKILLS ARE COMPLETELY INFALLIBLE BUT TRY NOT TO GET YOURSELF CULLED.  
TA: aw ii diidnt know you cared.  
CG: I DON'T, BUT YOU'RE THE ONLY PANBLASTED NUBFONDLER WHO BOTHERS TO TURN UP WITH ANY REGULARITY THESE DAYS AND WHO ELSE IS GOING TO IRRITATE ME IF YOU DIE?  
TA: everyone iirriitate2 you.  
TA: anyway iive done my good deed.  
TA: iim gonna 2ee how long ii can keep thii2 iidiiot goiing iin ciircle2.  
TA: try not two get murdered.

twinArmageddons [TA] has ceased trolling carcinoGenetecist [CG]

You roll your eyes and shut your husktop, not really in the mood for mindless screwing around anymore. What is Slick’s deal? It seems like an awful lot of work just to satisfy some idle curiosity, but you can’t imagine what he thinks it’s going to accomplish. Your only deep, dark secret is common knowledge these days, so if he’s hoping to dig up something good he’s going to be pretty disappointed.

Really, you can’t figure out what’s got him so fixated on you in the first place. You figure the novelty of your mutant status must be wearing off, so what? Is he bored and you just happened to make yourself a convenient target?

Not to mention what happened today was just strange. You were too busy being furious to give it much thought at the time, but Slick’s reaction to your outburst really didn’t line up with what you know about him. Exploding on him like that should’ve been borderline suicidal, but instead that might be the calmest you’ve ever seen him.

No, fuck it, you are not letting that asshole get to you. He’s completely crazy, and trying to apply logic to anything he does is an exercise in futility. You’re done dancing to his fucking tune, and you’re starting to care less and less that it might get you killed.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning you discover that someone was in your block while you were sleeping, _again_. There are three grubrolls sitting on the desk beside a scrap of paper with something scribbled on it, and for a minute all you can do is stare incredulously. Someone broke into your block to leave you grubrolls.

Grubrolls.

Mystified, you pick up the paper, wondering if it’s a note shedding some light on the inexplicable appearance of food. But that would be too easy, and all you get is a sequence of numbers penned in Slick’s angular hand. No label, no nothing to indicate what the numbers are supposed to mean. No explanation for the grubrolls.

You’re tired enough that it takes you a minute to be irritated that you recognize Slick’s handwriting in the first place. You’d seen enough of it when you were going over the schematics for that gargantuan waste of time and energy he put you through, but it still irks you that you’ve evidently spent enough time around him to pick up on something like that. You don’t want to know what his handwriting looks like. You wish you didn’t even know what his _face_ looks like.

You drop the note back on your desk and pick up one of the grubrolls, turning it over in your hands as if a thorough examination will explain what the fuck they’re doing here. Why would he bring you food? You’re pretty sure they’re not poisoned, if only because that’s really not Slick’s style. You’re assuming it was Slick anyway, since he’s the one who wrote the note.

You don’t get it. No matter how you look at it, it just seems like a… nice gesture? Unless he did it just to fuck with you, but that seems too subtle for him. Whatever, you haven’t had anything to eat in over a day and you’re starving, so you’re just going to take your chances. You drop into your chair and tear into one of the rolls, contemplating the numbers irritably.

What's the point of giving you these numbers without any explanation as to what the fuck they're supposed to mean? Maybe it's some kind of code? Coded messages seems like a laughsassin sort of thing, but it might as well be a steaming puddle of grub vomit for all the good it does you without any way to figure out what the code actually is. Hm, maybe you could ask Sollux, this is the kind of thing he's good at— fuck, _no_ , this is just what that fucker wants, and you are not going to let your curiosity get the best of you. Besides, it doesn't really seem long enough to be a message anyway.

You polish off your grubroll and start in on a second. You squint at the scrap of paper, which somehow manages to seem smug at your attention. No, no way, you are not doing this, you aren't playing Slick's game. You crumple up the note and toss it in the garbage. Ha! Who's smug now, you stupid, inanimate scrap of processed plant matter? Victorious, you finish your second grubroll and most certainly do not keep glancing at the trash. If Slick thinks he's going to win by appealing to your curiosity, he's going to be extremely disappointed.

You drum your claws on the desk.

Glance at the trash.

Okay, fuck it, you can at least figure out what the note means and then not actually do anything with the information. That'd practically be a double-victory. Your curiosity would be satisfied, and Slick won't get whatever he's hoping to accomplish. You fish the note out of the garbage and drop it back on the desk, smoothing the creases a bit. 

Assuming it's not some kind of message, what else could it be? Coordinates? No, too long. Some kind of file number? Maybe, but you aren't going to risk your hide digging through things you shouldn't. The number of crew on the ship? The number of sorry sacks Slick's gutted? Okay, this is stupid, and you're being a moron. None of that shit even makes sense. Seriously, what are you supposed to get out of some long sequence of seemingly random—

Oh.

Maybe it’s the access code for that room. You're not really sure why he'd give it to you, but it's the only plausible idea you've hit on so far. Unfortunately the only way to be sure is to go and try it, and if Slick's there to catch you, you lose. Considering the last thing you want is to lose to that deranged asshole, there's no way you can risk it. So you chuck the potential code into a drawer and resolve to forget about it. 

Your resolve lasts almost two hours, and you can practically hear that stupid note taunting you the entire time. You yank the drawer open and stuff the scrap in your pocket, because fuck it. It's a strange, early hour because your sleeping habits are completely skewed, so if there was ever a time for the room to be empty, this would be it. It's stupid. You know it's stupid. That shitbag has your number; the asshole wants to make your curiosity work for him, and you're playing right into it because —as has proven to consistently be the case where Slick is concerned— your already dubious good sense fucks off on holiday and you wind up making an ass of yourself. 

You pull up the map program on your palmhusk, because if nothing else you can at least find out if Droog’s there. You're a little surprised no one thought to disable the tracking program, but then you don't suppose there's a whole lot of damage you could do with his whereabouts, so you guess maybe no one cares. The dot helpfully informs you that Droog is nowhere near the meeting room, and is rather somewhere in the vicinity of Slick’s quarters, which means he's probably sleeping like any sane individual would be at this hour. 

Of course, that doesn't mean Slick is doing the same, but you suppose that's the best assurance you can hope for. 

You slip out of your block and go creeping down the corridor, until you realize what you're doing and force yourself to walk normally. What are you gonna do, sneak up on a room? With a soft snort at your own idiocy, you turn the corner and head away from crew quarters. You don't run in to anyone on the way, but that isn't surprising. There won’t be a shift rotation for another two hours or so.

When you reach your destination, you glance around the corridor and then press your ear to the door. You don't hear any voices, but that doesn't tell you much, except that Deuce probably isn't there. 

Okay, this is stupid, and you're stupid. It would be even worse if Slick catches you listening at the door like some sort of idiot. You punch the code into the keypad, and your smug vindication when the door slides open vanishes almost instantly.

Slick is sprawled on the couch, fiddling with some sort of device, a tiny screwdriver clamped between his teeth. He doesn't take his eyes off what he's doing, just takes the screwdriver out of his mouth and says, "Took you long enough."

Well, shit. Internally conceding defeat, you swat his legs off the couch and sit, because if you aren't reasonably safe at this point you never will be, and worrying about this asshole is exhausting.

Slick doesn't seem to care, just slings his legs back up and across your lap like you’re just another piece of furniture and goes back to fiddling with his device. You wait until it becomes clear that he's not going to talk, and huff out an exasperated sigh. "So what's this all about?" 

"What's what about?" he asks, eyes still firmly on his gadget. He fiddles with it a bit and frowns when nothing happens. 

"This!" You throw your hands up in exasperation. "Is this some sort of elaborate game of jerk around the mutant? Because I don't see what else it could be."

Slick finally looks up at you, expression unreadable. There's a long stretch of silence before he says, "You're a decoy."

Finally! A straight answ— wait, what? "A decoy?" you ask suspiciously.

Slick smirks. "Sure. With you around Duece'll have someone to direct his constant goddamn nattering at besides me."

You punch Slick in the shin and catch a fleeting smile as he returns his attention to his work.

* * *

It turns out that Slick wasn’t entirely lying. Given the opportunity Deuce will talk nonstop, which might be more annoying if you hadn't immediately discovered that he's also the biggest gossip you have ever met. You've probably learned enough already to blackmail half the senior staff for the rest of your natural life.

It's been three weeks or so since Slick gave you run of the place, although you're no closer to figuring out his motives. Deuce insists it's because he likes you, and you suppose maybe he does in some damaged corner of his already twisted pan, but that can’t possibly be the only reason. Regardless, you've found yourself spending most of your time here, because the depressing truth is that even dubiously sane company beats spending another day alone in your block. 

Right now you and Deuce are ignoring your card game in favor of watching Droog attempt to herd Slick off to a meeting with the Condesce. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of watching one of the most dangerous trolls in the empire acting like a petulant wiggler.

"I ain't gonna jump every time that stupid broad snaps her fingers," he complains, arms crossed.

With a reserve of patience that you're beginning to think is infinite, Droog takes Slick by the shoulders and steers him towards the door. "That 'stupid broad' is the empress, Boss. Everyone jumps when she snaps her fingers."

"Yeah, well that don't mean I gotta."

"Actually it does."  
Eventually, Droog manages to herd him out of the room, still expertly fielding Slick's grumbling as the door slides shut behind them. Deuce sighs. "It's kind of sad.”

“What is?" you ask absently, perusing your hand and wondering if there's any way out of this death spiral. You're discovering that Deuce is surprisingly good at cards.

Deuce glances back at Boxcars, who seems completely absorbed in whatever it is he's reading before leaning forward and confiding, "Droog's flushed for the Boss."

You drop your cards, game instantly forgotten. "Seriously?" You suspected pale maybe, based on the way he seems to always be quietly looking out for Slick, but flushed hadn't even crossed your mind, and you like to think you're pretty good at reading that sort of thing.

Deuce nods emphatically. "Has been for _ages_. I don't think Boss realizes though. He's pretty terrible at quadrants."

"He hasn't said anything?" you ask, fascinated. You'd gathered that Droog has known Slick since before the Midnight Crew was ever a thing, and they've been around longer than you've been alive. It makes you wonder.

Deuce shakes his head. "Me 'n Boxcars have been trying to talk him into it for sweeps, but he just won't do it . Never seen him look twice at anyone else though."

He's right, that is kind of sad, in a way that appeals to the hopeless romantic in you. "Maybe—"

"Will you two can the gossip?" Boxcars snaps. Deuce winces and shoots you a guilty look. "You should know better than to discuss Droog's business, you fuckin' blabbermouth."

"I didn't mean nothin' by it."

Boxcars sighs and puts his book down. "Stop looking at me like that. Just cuz the Boss likes having him around don't mean he's one of us." Boxcars tosses you a look. “Sorry, kid."

You shrug. You get it. Well, you don't _get_ it because you still can't figure out Slick's deal, but you're not stupid. You've been hanging out with a pack of laughsassins, they probably have secrets on secrets and you know you aren't going to be privy to any of them. Frankly you're just glad for the company. They're all a little shithive in one way or another, but it beats the monotony of sitting in your block all day staring at the walls.

Boxcars looks like he's going to continue, but suddenly the lights flicker and take on a greenish cast. "What the fuck?" you say, the tail end of your words eaten by a harsh, wailing klaxon that almost scares you right out of your fucking skin.

"Battlestations," Boxcars shouts above the alarm.

You're about to ask what exactly that means when the ship heaves beneath you, and for a second you can barely keep your feet. When you look up, Deuce is grinning in a slightly unhinged way that reminds you that all of these people are here for a reason. "We're under attack!" he bellows, delighted.

Your first thought is, stupidly, _well, at least Slick doesn't have to worry about that meeting anymore._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A plethora of hearts for [tacticalTempest](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tacticalTempest), for being kind enough to give this chapter a quick beta. <3
> 
> (I think I need to point out that she's basically single-handedly responsible for getting me off my lazy writer rump and working again. It's not super obvious to you guys yet, but I've gotten _so much_ shit done on the backend that I can actually say that I'm going to start updating regularly and not risk making a liar of myself. She's a miracle and I love her. OKAY gushing over, I just thought it was important to give credit where due!)
> 
> ALSO my readers are fucking rad, each and every one of you. I'm pretty well shit at replying to comments most of the time, but I do always read them and they never fail to brighten my day. You guys are the best. :D

He locked you in.

You scrabble at the door, trying to wedge your claws in and pry it open, but it's hopeless and you know it.

That bulgefisting shitsmear locked you in. If you ever get your hands on him, you're going to tear his entrails out through his nose. Very, very slowly.

After the alarms had sounded, Boxcars and Deuce had made for the door like their pants were on fire, but when you tried to follow, Boxcars had picked you up— _picked you up_ like being the size of a hive gave him the fucking right, he is so _dead_ — and deposited you on the table like a naughty wiggler and told you that you had to stay put because he wasn't dealing with Slick if you went and got yourself killed.

Not that you were planning to get yourself killed; you were just going to go back to your block. Did Boxcars think you meant to go fight off the enemy single-handedly? Fuck's sake. And why Slick would care if you got yourself killed, you aren't exactly sure. You suppose he doesn't need an excuse to flip his shit, and you guess you _are_ almost friends in some sort of ass-backwards pan-searingly bizarre way, but still.

You give up your futile battle with the door. At least they finally turned off the alarms, although the sickly green lighting and the way the ship occasionally lurches under you is a pretty good indication that whatever's happening is still happening. You’re not really worried that the aliens will win. Not that you know anything about them or their capabilities, but it isn’t like the Battleship Condescension lost a lot of battles. You just aren’t sure how much damage they might do before their complete and devastating defeat.

And that’s what really sucks about the whole thing— you have fuck-all information. Is it just the ships fighting? Have you been boarded? The thought makes you feel a little ill, and you glance uneasily at the door. You're not allowed to carry weapons, that's one of the many rules you’re expected to abide by if you want to continue breathing. If some kind of crazy alien came storming through that door you'd be fucked.

Eridan and Feferi are most likely fine. Being that close to the Condesce probably means their guards have guards. But what about Karina? You doubt anyone cares much about the rustbloods in janitorial. Then there's Slick and Droog. Of course, Slick always has enough pointy things on him to be considered a one man armory, but they weren't expecting to be attacked. What if something happened?

Not that you care if Slick gets killed because he's shithive and probably deserves it. It would certainly make your life a little easier.

And a lot more boring.

You gnaw your lip and frown. Okay, maybe you care if he gets killed. Fucking fuck.

If only you didn't have to sit on your hands with nothing to do but fret, concocting ever more elaborate scenarios in which the handful of people on this tincan that you almost consider friends die in horrible and painful ways.

You're in the middle of pacing circles, imagining a horde of faceless aliens bigger than Boxcars flooding the corridors when the door slides open. It's possible you make a completely undignified screech, but as it’s lost under the sound of Slick bitching, you're pretty sure it doesn't count.

Droog is supporting Slick like he's injured, and it makes something in your gut bottom out. When Droog sees you, he shoves Slick hard in your direction, effectively cutting off his tirade and says, "He's your problem now. I'm going to sleep."

You catch him without thinking, staring at his face while he leans hard on your shoulder and keeps on bitching even though Droog is gone. “Ungrateful sack of shit, see if I save your sorry hide—” he stops abruptly, gaze cutting from the door to you, and you know you should stop staring but you can’t help it.

He’s bleeding. Hat gone, some kind of head wound that’s bad enough to saturate his hair, tacky, half-dry smears down his cheek and chin. It’s probably not as bad as it looks, head wounds are weird like that, but what really has you fixated is the impossible hue of the blood drying on his face. At first you think it must be some kind of trick of the light, but no.

Spades Slick is a lime blood.

Suddenly all his batshittery makes a startling kind of sense. If he’s a lime blood, that explains why he’s been so bizarrely interested in you. He might not be a mutant like you are, but he’s something unusual all the same. You’re a freak and he’s a relic, and you’re struck with the urge to do something stupid, like hug him.

Slick’s watching you through narrowed eyes, and you realize this is a test. Maybe not one he planned, but you get the feeling that something important hinges on what you say next. Unfortunately, the garbage that spews from your wordhole rarely does you any good, so instead of asking like you want to, you say, “Sit down before you fall over,” and drop him on the sofa. He winces and rubs at his ribs, another injury maybe, before giving you a sour look. “Handkerchief,” you demand, holding out a hand. Slick hesitates a beat before he hands it over, and you think his compliance is more surprise than anything else. After a quick trip to the ablution chamber to wet it, you do the best you can to clear the blood away.

You avoid Slick’s stare as you scrub at the half-dry blood on his cheek. “What are you, my fuckin’ lusus?” he asks in muted disbelief, but makes no move to stop you.

You snort derisively and mutter, “Someone has to make sure you aren’t going to bleed to death.” It’s a weak excuse and he probably knows it, but right now you have not the tiniest fuck to give. If he was in any real danger Droog would have taken him to the infirmary instead of dumping him on you, but that doesn’t stop you from picking gently through his hair to catalogue the damage. It’s not bad, thankfully. Whatever he got hit with only seems to have grazed the scalp.

Lusus comment aside, Slick doesn’t bitch. It’s calming and sort of meditative, you muse, checking this way and that for any more head injuries you might have missed. There’s a chip near the base of his horn, but it looks like old damage, and you almost thumb it before jerking your hands away abruptly because _what the fuck._

You take a step back, cramming your hands in your pockets and trying to pretend that weren’t just acting borderline pale. Slick blinks once and shakes his head, and your bloodpusher stutters a little when you realize that not only were you being inappropriate, but that Slick was letting you get away with it.

“You’ll live,” you say, forced casual and a little rough because what. Okay sure, you may have spent a lot of time being more or less completely isolated, and _okay_ , that may have resulted in your standards for company taking a complete and utter fucking nosedive, but for fuck's sake. None of that explains why you just went a little pale on Slick.

"Could have told you that," he says, rubbing at a spot of dried blood you missed earlier. "This is a love tap compared to some of the shit I've had."

You think about all those strangely uniform scars on his torso, and something in your soft bits twists a little and _no,_ absolutely fucking not, you are not doing this, you aren't pale for this shithive sack of flesh _you are not._ Part of you wants to abandon ship, go back to your block and scour the whole bizarre incident from your mind, but running away feels like admitting something, so instead you grab for the first thing that comes to mind and blurt, "Boxcars locked me in."

If Slick is at all uncomfortable with what you did, it doesn’t show. He snorts. "Course he did, that's 'cause he ain't stupid. Couldn't have you running around the corridors and making yourself a target for the fucking aliens."

It takes a second for the words to parse, but when they do you can only stare. "We were _boarded?_ " you shriek. It was one thing to contemplate the possibility, and quite another to find out that it actually fucking happened.

"Sure," Slick says, lifting a shoulder like the fact that a bunch of enemy combatants had stepped foot on the flag ship was no big deal. “How d’ya think I got hurt?” You try to tell yourself you were too thrown by the lime blood thing to consider the details. "Tenacious little shits, I'll give 'em that."

The ship was attacked by aliens, you aren’t the only blood freak on board, and the end result was you fondling all over Slick in some sort of nonsensical pale spasm. That’s it. You’ve reached your limit. "I'm going to sleep," you announce stiffly, spinning on your heel and heading for the door. You are really too tired to deal with how upsetting you find the idea that Slick was wounded by aliens on what should, logically, be the safest ship in space. What you need to do is sleep until life makes sense again.

Slick shadows you to the door, and when you stop to scowl at him he says, "I'll walk you back." You're pretty sure it's your slack-jawed gape that compels him to add, "Pretty sure we got 'em all, but you never know."

You can't really find an argument for that, so you throw your hands up and sigh because Slick does what Slick wants. The fact that what he apparently wants is to make sure you're safe is not in any way causing tiny flutterbeasts to take up residence in your organs. Not at all.

You tromp out into the hallway, Slick on your heels, and you can't help but peer cautiously in both directions because you really don't want to die at the hand of some strange alien. Slick snorts and gives you a shove right between your shoulders to get you moving. "Don't be a pansy."

"Right, first it's 'lets lock Karkat in a room so he doesn't get murdered by rampaging aliens' and now it's 'don't be a pansy'," you grump, stalking down the hall. Fuck him right in his auricular sponge clots, there is nothing wrong with being cautious.

It's weird, but Slick seems determined to walk you all the way back to your block, and you slow to match his pace when you realize he’s moving a little stiffly. You almost ask, but manage to bite back the question. It doesn’t seem serious, and it’s none of your fucking business. The two of you make the trip in silence, and once you’re outside your block you hover a bit, unsure what to do with him. After a second you say, "You should get some sleep too,” before you can think better of it. You resist to bash your head into the wall only just, because at this point Slick probably thinks you’re flirting on purpose.

Or maybe he doesn’t notice, because he just inclines his head. "Sure thing, kid." He doesn't move, and you're just standing in front of your door, fidgeting a little.

You wait a beat, but he doesn't seem inclined to leave until you go inside, so you frown a little and say, "Uh, thanks?" before absconding the fuck into your block because you’re an inept sack of excrement incapable of basic social interaction.

Inside, you drop into the chair, slumping over and burying your face in your arms. You're tired because you'd been locked in that room for the better part of a day, but instead of sleeping you just stare at the door over your arms.

There’s probably an explanation, you try to reason. You've been isolated, and Slick is the person you spend the most time with. He's kind of your friend, as weird as that is. He might be a shitty friend but it isn't like you have a whole lot of options in that department, and it’s not like you’re a fucking prize yourself. You might not like it, but you have to admit that you were genuinely worried about him earlier, if only in the privacy of your own head.

That, coupled with his injury and the fact that he's kind of like you in a backwards way, well. Maybe that explains your pale moment. And it was definitely just a moment, because you do not _pity_ Slick, not one iota. It was just a confluence of circumstance that —temporarily!— nudged you in that direction.

You sigh and stretch your arms out, letting your forehead hit the desk with a thump. Still, it might be a good idea to cut back on the time you spend with those lunatics. Maybe you can find Karina again, have the presence of mind to ask for her Trollian handle this time. Or not, who fucking knows, but clearly you need to distance yourself from Slick because you're getting, fuck, almost attached to him or something and that really needs to stop.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Keen Edged](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290249) by [AnonEi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEi/pseuds/AnonEi)




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